


Plagued by Nightmares

by Jiraena



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fairy Tale Curses, Fairy Tale Retellings, I aimed for psychological horror and ended up with fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24295528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jiraena/pseuds/Jiraena
Summary: After the citizens had been freed from their plague, they regretted the promised wages and denied the amount to the man with all sorts of evasions, so he finally left, angry and bitter.The Grimm Brothers - The Pied Piper of Hamelin
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 87





	Plagued by Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> Beware of the tropes! They are everywhere, even in the disclaimer: 
> 
> -TV show based.  
> -Unbetaed and English is not my first language.

  
_After the citizens had been freed from their plague, they regretted the promised wages and denied the amount to the man with all sorts of evasions, so he finally left, angry and bitter._

The Grimm Brothers - The Pied Piper of Hamelin

· I ·

The Contract

“Geralt of Rivia”

The tone was respectful enough, even if it didn´t have any question in it. So Geralt didn´t answer and… stared, startled at finding something familiar in the intruder’s eyes.

“Do we know each other?” He asks.

“No. But you know my brother. Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.”

Geralt snorts. The only thing that comes to mind at that is a peacock.

“I don´t know him”.

There it was, the sneer. For a brief moment, Geralt had thought the noble to be an exception of his kind and actually be polite. He should be old enough not to be fooled by the lack of spit at his feet, even if it was an improvement.

A letter is thrown over the table, in front of him.

“Are you sure?”

His disdain is thick on the air, exuded with the practiced ease of the noble born, of someone who has been repeatedly told over their whole lives that they are better than everybody else.

Geralt is annoyed, far over the point over caring – too old, too hated for that- but irritation surges like liquid, heated poison inside his chest.

But the blue in his eyes is loud, and Geralt knows desperation in a voice when he hears it, no matter how well hidden by poise. He picks up the sealed envelope, opens it, and for the first time in a lifetime, he forgets to breath.

The silence is broken by the sound of broken wood, smashed between his fingers where they hold the border of the table. Something in the room gets darker, something in the air chills when he tears his gaze from the unfolded paper.

“Jaskier´s dead”.

The noble doesn´t cower under his heavy stare. He seems almost satisfied and Geralt is also familiar with the gleam that appears in his eyes at his reaction. It is the hope of someone who appeciates him as an evil, because he needs him to deal with another one.

“Not yet, but he is dying. He´s been cursed to death.” He reaches into his pocket and presents the Witcher with a purse full of coin. Looks him straight into the eyes and enunciates his next words with the clear diction of whom won´t take no for an answer. “He made me swear on my honour that I would not come looking for you, but I´d rather be honourless than lose him. If that will is not enough to convince you of accompanying me, if whatever your past together doesn´t suffice, then the coin will have to do. You´ll receive ten times that amount if he sees the next spring.”

· ∞ ·

He expected to find Jaskier bedridden. Haunted at the least, most certainly sick. Surely not perched on the stone wall surrounding the state, playing his lute.

He´s been trying to reconcile the image of that castle and the Bard since the former could be seen in the distance, unable to comprehend how someone raised to be like Count Edmund could have ended sleeping in the dirt and the cold, traveling with a monster´s slayer.

Not without complain, mind you. But without any real heat in those protests and whines.

Looking at him with a foot dangling from the edge of the wall, lute in hand and gaze fixed far away on the horizon, he thinks he _sees_ , even if he doesn´t understand. 

“Brother.” Edmund calls when they are close enough. Geralt has keen eyes, knows that they have been noticed a while ago and are being intentionally ignored.

“Jaskier.” Geralt says.

The lute stops.

“Witcher.” He inclines his head, several oaths of not being friends hanging in the air between them. “Edmund. I love you, brother, but I thought that your word had more value. This is unbecoming of a Knight and a Count.”

The Count dismounts, scowling.

“Save the criticism. I am mindful of my actions and the honour or lack of it in them.” He turns to Geralt. “Please dine with us. We can discuss the matter then. I´ll tie him to the chair if it is necessary.”

· ∞ ·

The ropes are unnecessary, but for Jaskier to be present and for him to be… _amenable_ are two completely different things. He eats and keeps up with the conversation politely enough, but stubbornly refuses to address the curse.

Edmund threatens and yells to no avail. Geralt stares.

“I refuse to be angry at you, Edmund. I have too little time left to spend it hating.” He sighs. His face finally reveals some turmoil as he addresses Geralt for the first time since his arrival.

“Eat something.” He orders with a nod to his untouched plate.

 _I know you are always starving._ It is unspoken but Geralt hears it anyway.

“Show me the flute”.

The half-smile that it grants him is something ugly.

“Down to business, I see. I´d rather you picked up the coin and left. Your… _services_ are not required here.” He waves a hand with affectation, an habit picked up again at finding himself home.

Geralt doesn´t answer. Doesn´t move.

 _I´ll wait._ He doesn´t need to say it aloud, because Jaskier also hears it anyway.

After another dramatic sight, he raises and leaves the dining hall. Edmund and Geralt follow.

There is not much in his rooms, the Witcher notes, at least no more possessions scattered around than the ones that used to accompany him on the road. _Only bird in the world that doesn´t nest_ , thinks the Witcher.

The object is produced from a case by the bed and offered to him.

His medallion vibrates and Jaskier stares at his chest, unimpressed.

“What now?”. Edmund asks.

“We track the origin of the thing. It is old, but some artisan in town might recognize the crafting. It might get us closer to the source of…”

“It is around 150 and 200 years old.” Jaskier interrupts. “Cirdan manufacture and the metal probably comes from elven trade, as it was in fashion at that time and place”. He pauses, annoyed by the surprised looks. “I know my craft, you know. Besides, all this dying affair is not something I have decided thoughtlessly or stumbled upon yesterday. I am a host for a curse, casted by someone a long dead. It is unbreakable. I could live with it, coping with my victims suffering, or try to pass it on someone else, but I am not doing that. As much as both of you are at odds with my life decisions right know and despite all that came between us… I know you both will respect that.”

“You are a complete idiot”. Geralt grunts.

Jaskier pats his chest lightly, faux offence in his voice and real hurt in his eyes.

“Now, now. No need to be rude to the walking corpse”.

Something unravels in Geralt at the ill-timed joke, sudden as it often happens when he is assaulted by his crippled emotions. Jaskier´s yanked by the collar until he is very close the golden eyes he´s singed so much about.

“I do not solve curses Jaskier. I _break_ them.”

The Bard hears, listens only halfway. All those years and he had never been so close. If only he had know the exact shade before, he could have written better songs.

It´s _lighting_. Both the colour and the rage. Oh, such songs.

“I don´t have any hope left, dea-Geralt”.-He says instead, only fashionably late, when his mind catches up with all the implications of the Witcher´s words.

A grunt.

“You don´t need to”.

“I´m not sure I want to”.

And suddenly Geralt understands the fear in Edmunds eyes, why he hauled him there instead of hiring the first mage, miracle man or Witcher in his path.

“To live, or to hope?”

Jaskier hums in approval, as he does when something rhymes.

“It´s bound to be the same”.

It´s no more than a pensive humm, without any trace of the bard´s usual humour and penchant for fanfare.

Geralt also humms, dread creeping into him. He knows himself able to quest for whatever means are necessary to break that curse, but he´s not sure he can find Jaskier´s will to live.

· ∞ ·

They set on the Path, heading North.

A glimpse of what Jaskier the Witcher´s Bard once was manifests itself in a short but dramatic argument before parting. He doesn´t want to go, he´s angry at Edmund for breaking his vow and at Geralt for… _existing_ and he came home to die and he - dammed be all -will do that in peace. What will they do? Force him?

The answer is _yes_ , they will, and after some fuming and some silence he agrees to go. It´s not what he wants, but he´s not a fighter and he always has accepted circumstances as easily as if he was made of water and could flow among them.

So he packs and gets on the mare that Edmund gifts him and embraces him long and tender, no hard feelings and only some regret.

“Fare well, brother”.

The Count´s last glance is for the Witcher. Geralt returns it and nods his understanding.

They´ll come back, one day.

Jaskier didn´t pack his lute.

· ∞ ·

They have camped for the night, sit by the fire in silence. Jaskier looks absently up, presumably at the stars and the passing clouds, more bored than awed.

They are waiting for the moon to disappear, so Geralt might try to catch a wildfire. That being apparently possible and the thing to do when you do not know where you are going but know that you need to be somewhere. Jaskier would be sceptic -that being counter intuitive and against everything he has been ever taught about following dancing blue lights wandering in the forest- but since he things the whole errand on saving his life quite foolish to begin with, he´s not feeling up to arguing about it. 

Geralt, meanwhile, muses.

Contrary to popular belief, the Witcher is perfectly capable of expressing himself. He is taciturn and mostly silent, yes, but that is a consequence of living long and in hardship, not of a lack of words or thoughts. It´s just that he finds speeches mostly vacant, stories fairly untrue and solemn declarations prone to bring trouble. So he listens, and he remains silent, but for essential communication and the occasional sarcastic comment, when he finds enough humour and the energy for it.

That is the main obstacle, summoning the energy and the will. Because he became tired, a long time ago. Why bother? Who cares?

But he _sees_ Jaskier very clearly across the fire in the night, the line of the shoulders that suggest a burden, the loss in the eyes that speaks of pain.

Jaskier, lover of all the arts, all the people, all the world, has been defeated by life and is exhausted by it. Whereas a younger self would relish the beautiful night and sing and drink to it, now colour is less bright, the fire is not merry, and the silence is welcomed.

Geralt sees it all and tastes the bitter tragedy of it in his tongue.

And so, he speaks.

“I am ashamed, Jaskier.” He says.

“Whatever for?”

He is surprised, if not alarmed. The Witcher catches a spark of curiosity, of concern, of life, and grabs it while he cans. He holds his gaze.

“You have always been extraordinary; in that you could see. Now you look as tired and wary of the world and I am ashamed of my cruelty to you, and to have contributed to that loss. You said that I smelled like adventure and heartbreak and It took more than…”

“It was onion”. Jaskier jests, somewhat strangled.

“I know it is too late to apologize but I _am_ sorry and I thought that you should at the least hear it. It is not the first time I find you dying after saying something hurtful to you and face the idea of it being my last words to you, I´d should have known better. I´ll get you out of this, with whatever might I have, and from that moment on, I´ll always remember, even if you are not by my side anymore.”

His blue eyes are open wide, with something close to awe that Geralt is having difficulties to place. It looks like he is going to say something but can´t decide on which words to keep. When he fails to weave an interruption, Geralt continues.

“I´ve spend a lot of time telling you that the stories are not true, but you have always known better. A curse like this won´t break if you don´t fight it. I know you have it in you to overpower it, but I also understand that you feel now beaten. I need you to pick up yourself from the floor and find absolute will to live, Jaskier.”

“Whatever I´m ashamed of? Of being your friend and denying it. Of being your friend and mistreating and abandoning you and worst of all, of being your friend and not knowing what to say to you that will make it better. How to patch up that hole in your soul when you yourself can´t mend it.”

Again, Jaskier silence is loud. The Witcher´s senses pick up the frantic pace of his hearth, and he _hopes_. Be it fury or emotion, he´s succeeded in awaking something and that is reward enough.

Movement. The Bard startles out of his stunned contemplation and crosses the few steps that separate them. He hauls Geralt by the collar of his shirt and embraces him.

“Fuck you, Geralt. You well dammed knew what to say to hurt me and you fucking know what to say to stir me up again. I forgive you all your sins, I always have, you bastard, because you won´t forgive them yourself.” He gets a step back, enough to look at him. “But please, please do not paint a nice story for me. I do not believe in happy endings anymore.” He pleads. “I now know what magic and destiny mean, and it is not romance. And if you make me believe once again in all of that… I will not only be dead when it fails but destroyed. I´ve come to terms with the ugly in the world and I don´t want to break my hearth all over again over it. Do not make me believe my will to live will make a difference in this. What´s next, telling me that we are looking for my true love to kiss it better?”

The absolute guilt Geralt feels might be clear in his eyes, from this close, or maybe it is that Jaskier had spent so many years filling his silences for him that he´ll always know, now. What he doesn´t say.

“You do. You really believe that would work.” He falls on the wet grass, prey of a laugh more hysterical than amused, doubled by the lack of air in his lungs. For the first time since Geralt knows him, he smells faintly like fear.

But his gaze is steady, almost defiant, even if he is still at his feet on the ground, now leisurely sprawled as if poised instead of fallen.

The Witcher has a feeling, familiar but out of context. _Danger_.

“Let´s try it, then. Come and kiss me.”

“Jaskier.” He growls.

The Bard half smiles, picks himself off the ground.

“I´m not mocking you in anger, Geralt. I´m serious, _deadly_ so. In fact. You know, since I might not die if it works.” He rambles. He pauses. He sobers. “I´ve loved many. Plenty. Well. But true love? There is only one of those.”

It´s unbearably soft and it rings so _true_ that it almost knocks the Witcher down. There´s a swell within his chest, usually so hollow, and he swears repeatedly. Trust destiny to invent new types of torture when he becomes numbed enough to the old ones.

“Fuck.” And then, in case it wasn´t clear, again: “Fuck”.

One of Jaskier´s brow raises, vaguely amused by that being the answer to baring his hearth and exposing the deepest part of his soul. The irony does not escape him. It is just who they are.

“Fuck”. Yet again, for good measure and then he has the decency to elaborate on his answer. “I have enough of a hearth for it to break hearing that, Jaskier.” He says and he means it, even if he does not know how to convey how much. “But I have been broken _whole_. I won´t tell you that I can´t feel, hell, I´m feeling fucking enough right now. But I won´t be what you need, it won´t be nearly enough. There is much of love that is related to fear, empathy, care. And that was mutated out of me a lifetime ago, so long ago that I can´t remember what it is to feel something without that thick cloth drawn over it. I was created to kill monsters and for that they broke me and remade me suitable for it, if not unfeeling. I can love you back, Jaskier. Dammit, I do. But it will never be enough.”

He picks up his swords and storms into the trees.

Two times over the course of his live did his words fail Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.

Only once did they fail Jaskier, Bard of the White Wolf.

“Fuck”.

· ∞ ·

Destiny is playing mind games again, putting the simplest solution just out of his reach again. Making the poor man fucking in love with the only creature on the whole continent utterly incapable to end his fucking curse to the death with something as simple and yet as complicated as a _true love´s kiss_.

Just so. Since Jaskier´s life depends on it, Geralt stubbornly refuses to let this one be the blow that ends him and marches on into the forest decided to face this with what might he has, as he promised, instead of dwelling on the one that he hasn´t.

_Not human enough._

_Not enough of a hearth to give away._

_Not enough._

_Not human._

_No heart._

Actually, he does dwell, but he keeps moving while he does. Torturing himself with memories of a fall out of similar nature with Yennefer and recurring flashes of wet blue eyes.

And so he purposely gets lost in the forest, which is quite tricky since it usually is – by definition- something unconsciously done and because, you know, Witcher senses, but he manages well enough.

Almost as soon as his vague awareness of his general location in relation to the camp and the path diffuses, the first magic light spirit appears. Geralt focuses on it, marking his prey, and downs a potion for speed from a vial in his pocket.

His stalk becomes a run, and blessedly, he´s not thinking anymore. This is what he is, and the hunter in him, the monster, is then welcomed.

· ∞ ·

Jaskier is feeling again, and it hurts in all the good and bad ways.

“You did know what to say.” He murmurs. The sound of his own voice - _hopeful_ \- startles him.

Because if he dies, now, what Geralt thinks is the last part of his humanity will be gone. For some reason, even if he can´t feel _enough love_ -is that even possible? – he sure can feel enough guilt and despair.

Jaskier is alive again, and believing in fairytales. True love might not conquer all, but it will sure be enough to get him out of his own arse and deal with the shit destiny has been throwing his way.

There´s a manic energy to him when Geralt reappears, defeated, with the first signs of the sunrise.

“Hameln”. He says.

The Witcher is tired, confused, and so glad that the topic is new. He´s not feeling up for a reprise of the former night´s opera magna.

“What.”

The Bard comes to sit by his side, looking frantic but much more present than he has since their reunion.

“I told you only half the information I have on the curse and knowing now that you feel responsible for getting me out of this I am not comfortable withholding it anymore.”

“Well.” Geralt growls impatiently. “Go on”.

· II ·

The Tale

If Jaskier has learnt something from life, is that nobility is rarely obtained by upbringing. No king can bestow upon anyone that kind dignity and wisdom. He knows this, and a romantic as he is, is well equipped to recognize a noble soul when he meets it.

He wonders vaguely what this woman has seen across the years to make her so, takes her wrinkled hand and kisses it. He discards all his flirty smiles and grandiloquent words, and simply says:

“Thank you for your tale, grandmother”.

Her smile is so warm that it lingers in his chest all the way to the next town. He has little destination in mind, as always, but he is quite intrigued by this last story.

No sense for a Witcher´s Bard which is witcherless, so now he fancies himself a peculiar breed of collector and gathers lore, history and anecdotes wherever the wind carries him. He will get back to Oxenfurt, one day, when the weariness of the road triumphs over the restlessness and teach, maybe write a book. Or something like that.

In the meantime, he walks. He hums, also, a tune that came to mind while the old woman´s weaved her even older tale for him. Intriguing indeed.

There is a plague, in this fairytale town, and a stranger comes to save it. His magical flute enchants the vermin and they follow its sound until they drown in the river. But the town refuses to release the agreed payment, and furious, the saviour from one evil becomes a worst evil himself. The flute sings again at night, and this time it is the children who follow.

It is... macabre, but he cannot stop humming.

 _All the rats, all the mice, all the…_ children _._

It sounds as if someone had taken a Witcher´s and an errant Bard characters and fused them on the same tale. That must be the reason for his nagging curiosity, and it makes a bitter kind of sense. Sad witcherless Witcher´s Bard. The alliteration is nice, but it would make a depressing ditty.

He sighs, disappointed at himself for mopping but kind enough to forgive his own faults. He wonders about the Truth that lies behind such an history.

Was it a mad Witcher? Raging in his hunger and baited by the townspeople hate. No music in that version, but that could have come later as an embellishment for the tale.

Was it a mad Bard? Saying the right thing, singing the right tune, luring the children away from the safety of their homes. No magic in that one, but it is also a common enough resource to spice up a story told around a fire.

It takes a fortnight to reach the town. The first sign that something is going to go wrong (going to shit- the rumbling voice of his conscience supplies) is the silence. It is a _disquiet_ , more than a lack of sound, and he receives more weary looks than he is worth, which feels unjustified even in those trying times.

The second is the gentle but firm refusal of his services at the tavern.

“You should keep your trade for yourself. It will be frowned upon all over town, but it is forbidden at the main street. Banned by law.” The tavern maid warns in a whisper.

He doesn´t ask why. It is obvious enough that the old history he was chasing is very much alive here and has cached up to him. He gives the girl a coin for the advice, pondering if she is too young or too bright to be bigoted.

And Jaskier is a learned man and could laugh in the face of this ignorant people, abuse them for rejecting art for superstition, but he is also well-travelled and knows how dangerous prejudices are. So he keeps his mouth shut and keeps the strings of his lute bound, and leaves. That obviously wasn´t a place for him.

On a whim, full of the reckless defiance that has led him to trouble and to dubious glory all his life, he marches into the river.

The water is deep and flows with strength. Glimmers in the sunny day.

_All the rats, all the mice, all the children._

A metal flute is washed at his feet.

_Shit._

· ∞ ·

As is the usual way of nightmares, it started as a pleasant enough dream. He´s playing the story´s tune on his flute, strutting down an empty street. The silence is _broken,_ after so many years of music´s exile and it feels good to be its herald.

His feet feel so light, with song in them, and the cold air of the night fills his lungs pleasantly before being fed to the instrument.

He doesn´t want to stop and is content to play along until a strange kind of awareness creeps upon him. It isn´t immediate and it comes from nowhere, but the knowledge is suddenly there.

He _can´t_ stop.

He hadn´t need to consider it before, how much of an universally acknowledged truth is that a man is a master of his own body. How dependant one is of his limbs obeying his mind and how terrifying the mere idea of an unwilling form could be.

The panic is there, even if his body does not show the usual sings of it. Bidden by some occult force, he can´t hyperventilate, he isn´t paralyzed, he doesn´t scream. His mind spirals out of itself but on he goes, breathing live into the flute, a joyful spring in his step.

_All the rats, all the mice, all the children._

They are following him.

_All the rats, all the mice, all the children._

Not to the river! Not to death!

He fights, resists, yells and scratches, he knows he does, even if there aren´t any external sings of it.

But he is not heading to the river, but to the hill. There are caves, dark, moist and dirty, and he is the monster in them.

· ∞ ·

He wakes up, fearful and frantic. Catches his breath and loses it again when he sees the flute beside him.

· ∞ ·

The next time the dreams, he is sitting idly inside the cave. He´s playing again, the same tune, but unhurried.

Still unaware of the nightmare´s clutches, this time is the smell that triggers him back. Because his unusual bardic skillset includes being able to identify unequivocally the stench of rot and death.

A cloud must move on, then, back on the surface, and some light comes from a hidden crack in the earth ceiling. It illuminates enough the hole that he can see the mice feeding.

He wakes up screaming.

· ∞ ·

Jaskier is fully awake and in control of his body when he hears the tale of the disappearing children and therefore is able to express his terror at his nightmares becoming reality by promptly passing out.

He consults mages, sorceresses, miracle men, elders and healers. He tries again to get rid of the cursed flute in the fifty ways he hadn´t still tried before.

In the end the sentence is clear. He is a host and he is killing and the curse´s end is also his own.

He has some time, at the least, to get his affairs in order. It seems to be a pattern, and it is still months until the next anniversary of his doom.

So he goes home to die.

· ∞ ·

“Do not mourn me before I´m gone, Edmund. I beg you. I´ve put in order all my affairs. I´ve singed, loved and _lived_. You don´t get to regret when I do not.”

· III·

The Courage

“Right the wrong”. Geralt declares, after a while.

“Beg your pardon?”

Jaskier has been left exhausted again from reliving his Nightmare. He struggles to get back his spark of life.

“The mages told you that the curse could not be broken because the wronged person is not alive anymore, nor the offenders. But magic powerful enough to linger this way is almost an entity on its own. We have to right the wrong.”

The Bard looks sceptic.

“First true love´s kiss and now aphorisms. You know I have the utmost respect of your abilities, Witcher, but I don’t feel like you are earning Edmunds coin.”

Geralt lets out a menacing growl and pins him with a glare.

“If I was in this for the coin I´d just let you die and enjoy the silence and lack of nonsense. Your brother showed me your will”.

Jaskier pales.

“He… shouldn’t have done that. It is a low blow.”

He looks almost sick and more haunted by this than by his curse. Geralt´s tone is gentle when he next speaks.

“Do not blame him. He did everything he could to get me to you. He broke his oath to you, tried to bribe me, begged and threatened. He must think that Witcher´s are unfeeling and he showed me the will anyway, in case it moved me or appealed to some sense of debt.” 

“I know.”

Geralt groans. Bracing himself for another speech. He hates this, but again, it must be said.

“I know you, Jaskier, even if I deny it all the time. Your will was insulting, full of all the spite one would expect to find in a rejected dying viscount.” “Payment for the services provided” He snorts. “As if I was a whore and your songs about me had made you rich instead.” He looks him dead in the eye, again. “But I am not stupid. That was coin enough to make me through a harsh winter. Even insulted, mistreated and banished from my side… Hell. Even _dead…_. You wanted to be sure I was alright.”

“I am fucking ashamed.” He concludes.

The fire crackles gently.

· ∞ ·

The night offers him some respite, Jaskier being abnormally quiet.

It doesn´t last, though. Morning comes, and he takes to the task of loading Roach and the new mare for the road. He is aware of the Bard´s waking up, since he can hear his breathing changing, but he doesn´t interrupt his activities.

“Geralt.”

A grunt.

“I must inform you that I have been staring at your backside for a while”.

The Witcher turns slowly, quite confused. Jaskier is lounging in his bedroll by the dying fire, quite calm.

“It is just that you seemed uncomfortable yesterday with all the love confessions, but you are quite calm since the topic deviated to the curse yesterday. I wanted to make sure I wasn´t taking advantage by staring at your back and giving you a false sense of security. That matter is not going to be dropped anytime soon.” He proclaims with a smile, half amusement, half leer.

“Is this how you usually get people into your bed?” Geralt asks. He looks downright bewildered.

Jaskier feels truly offended for a brief moment. He had to fall for the only creature on the whole Continent unappreciative of his charm, of course it had to be that big oaf in particular- but it passes, and he smiles sweetly, his eyes narrowed. “And how, pray tell, would the Master Witcher prefer to be wooed?”

The Master Witcher´s bewilderment turns into astonishment.

“Start by not looking at me as if I was prey. It´s messing with my senses.”

A pause.

“Jaskier? Are you alright? Your heart stopped for a moment.”

A gulp.

“Yeah.” The word comes out of his throat a little strangled. Wait. “You can hear my heartbeat?”

“All the time.”

“Fuck”.

The thump thump gets as fast as a rabbit’s. Geralt frowns and crouches by the Bard.

“What is it?”

Jaskier is far, far out of his depth, so he goes for the truth.

“I´ve been trying to flirt with you, which I am usually very good at, you are aware of my wide reputation-.” Geralt snort gets him back on track”-because flirting is what I do when I am not trying to hide deeper feelings with not hope of being returned, and you are, I expected you to be…”

“Embarrassed?” Geralt supplies helpfully, still crouched close. Jaskier tries hard not to think how much thigh strength is needed to be comfortable in that position for such a long time and focuses on processing all the words. “I am nearly a century old, little bard. That´s time enough to cure anyone of shyness. Scared?” He lets off a deep chuckle and looks him up and down. “I have wrestled down far worse.”

It takes a moment, but Jaskier eventually reacts, getting up only to fall to his knees dramatically, supplicant.

“Geralt. Geralt! I _must_ know. Is that _innuendo_?”

“You´ll never know”. Geralt deadpans, batting his hands away and getting back to the horses.

“Geralt!” He shouts again.

“Jaskier. I am trying fucking hard not to be an asshole to you. We are not having this conversation until you are not dying. Enough.”

Jaskier panickes at that. He throws himself in the Witcher´s arms, desperate.

“Swear you will fuck me before I die. Swear to me. I cannot go to the grave without…”

He is dead serious. Geralt notices. Unbelievable. He was aware of the utter lack of self-preservation instinct, but this is… Too much. He disengages Jaskier´s hands from his shirt and holds him by the wrists.

“Senseless prat. Is there any space for survival instinct in that hollow skull of yours?”

Jaskier offers him a small smile.

“I stay close to the big bad Witcher, you know. For protection.”

“Fuck you”. He says, mounting Roach and steering her away.

“I really wish you did”.

“Shameless.”

“Always have been.”

“You are all bark and no bite, Jaskier. For all that dirty talk, I have yet to had to defend my virtue.”

“Well, I do not have a death wish.” He grouses.

He is aware of what he just said as soon as the words leave his mouth. He is startled by how much he means that casual turn of phrase, given his recent resolution of not living to see the next spring. 

Geralt laughs. For real, unrestrained, throwing his head back and showing all his sharp teeth. It is beautiful to behold and Jaskier mourns his lost hability to sing the praises of such a sight.

“You make me want to live and sing again” He proclaims, just to make it clear. It is too grand a thing to be announced by a slip of the tongue.

“You make me feel.” Says Geralt, simply, still smiling.

 _That_ … makes them even.

· ∞ ·

They reach a town by sunset, courtesy of Geralt great traveling timing. The inn is drafty and miserable, just shy of not being an improvement over the hard and cold forest ground. Its only virtues are a roof and the promise of stew, but they have made do with worse before.

Geralt doesn´t complain when Jaskier asks just for one room, and he feels grateful enough to be well-behaved and not tease him about it. He even buys the biggest tankard on ale they have to offer for him and sits quietly with his back to the tavern, letting Geralt take his usual look out dark corner post.

“Thank you”. The Witcher rumbles appreciatively, drinking so much in a single gulp that Jaskier thinks that he might drown in it.

“You are welcome. I like to reward good behaviour and you have been talking a lot this past two days.” He teases.

Geralt´s nose scrunches in that way it does when he is not really annoyed.

“It is an effort.”

“I know. I appreciate it.” He assures him, biting back a smile when the other downs another third of the ale in one go.

“You know, there is a history about great immortal heroes, that depend on an elixir to be powerful and eternal. The potion of the most famous one is wine, and he spends his long life drunk. I do quite enjoy the idea, but it is from so far away and so far ago nobody knows exactly about its origins”.

It earns him a small smirk.

“Swear that you won´t be chasing that story too.” Geralt says dead serious. “You will end up poisoned and we have our hands full as it is.”

Blue eyes open wide, a hand flews dramatical to his heart.

“Isn´t it too soon to be teasing me about that? At least wait until I am not dying.”

“Why, witcher humour too dark for you?

It feels good. Moreover, it feels _normal,_ like they are back to a time when heartbreak and curses weren´t between them and the only certain and uncertain thing was the Path in front of them.

“You are getting maudlin again.”

“I am doing quite allright, all things considered.” He complains but obliges and changes the topic. “Will you elaborate now on the whole “right the wrong” thingy?"

A sigh. A grunt. A pause.

Jaskier waits, amused. He fancies himself able to hear the thoughts fighting for order under that white mane.

It takes a while and yet another long sip of his ale, but it comes out eventually.

“150, 200 years ago, you said.” Jaskier nods. “There was a Plague at that time, in the south. Literally, a black disease. It didn´t decimate the population as much as any of the Great plagues, but it was terrible and fatal anyway. I think your history is about that, even if it is true that such maladies are often transmitted by rats.”

So the fallen rescuer of Hameln wasn´t only leading rats, but _Death_ , away. He´s tempted to interrupt with half a dozen questions but reigns himself in time. Geralt continues.

“Without the vermin to spread the sicknesses, the mortality rate would lower quickly. Either the town didn´t understand the value of what was given or they were more afraid of the solution than from the plague itself.”

“Or maybe they were a bunch of stingy, ignorant humans that recompensed help with jeers. Jaskier snorts. “We´ve seen that often enough. There was a reason why I decided to make a career out of making a legend out of you. People doesn´t throw rocks at legends.”

“Funny. You insist you are a bardic legend and they still throw rotten vegetables at you sometimes.”

“Which shows poor taste but does not count as an aggression. Do go on.”

Geralt gaze softens.

“Do you think you can do that again? They are poor and far away, they are bound to have some kind of monster terrorizing them for me to slay. If you can convince them to pay me, that might redeem them enough for the curse to break.”

The fact that Geralt hasn´t asked Jaskier why he is not singing doesn´t go unnoticed. It makes Jaskier feel safe and understood, even if he doesn´t feel like a Bard anymore. It also makes his throat dry with terror. He managed to pluck his lute, back at the castle, but he isn´t sure he can sing.

Because it fills his mind, all the time, persistent and corrosive.

_All the rats, all the mice, all the children._

“We won´t be welcome. I´ve been there before and nobody is. A Bard, after what has happened to the children… We will be lucky if they don´t try to hire you to kill me.”

“We´ll see.”

· ∞ ·

They travel long and far, precious time slipping from their fingers and yet, Jaskier can´t help but wish that the road would never end. He doesn´t want to face his demons, even if it means not singing ever again. But his will to live is back, and to die a noble and unsinged death is not enough anymore.

He owes it to Geralt to refuse to go without putting on a fight, too.

But the closer they get, the heavier the weight of it all on his shoulders, and when they get to the last inn they will enjoy before Hameln, he can barely breathe.

He´s ahead into the building while Geralt tends the horses. As soon as he reaches the threshold a terrible idea assaults him. 

It is the last inn. He used to thrive in places like this, weaving his particular kind of magic, dozens of voices raised to join him in his songs, loud and joyful. He´s been lamenting this loss, but he hasn´t felt it so acutely as he does, now, faced with his last chance.

If everything goes wrong, he thinks with clarity, he´ll never sing again. He´ll never get to tell Geralt the thousand little things that have gone unsaid, nor get to repeat a thousand and one times that he loves him. 

Overwhelmed, he bolts back into the forest, fighting to control his panic and get enough air into his lungs.

The Witcher had insisted they stop because he had noticed him getting weary, so miserably used to the constant stink of fear around him by then that he thought nothing of the sudden disappearance. When he enters the tavern and doesn´t find him, however, alarm seizes him.

Was all of that flirting nonsense meant to distract him? Maybe Jaskier was planning to escape him from the beginning and all his easy compliance was intended to lure him into a false sense of security.

He feels furious, even if he knows it is not exactly the appropriate emotion for the circumstances.

He is going to _hunt down_ that fucking Bard.

The two lads manning the canteen seem suitably alarmed when he approaches in a blaze of fury, but relax somewhat when Geralt´s growl makes it obvious that they are not the ones in trouble.

“Have you seen a Bard?” He manages to articulate. “Almost my height, blue eyes, colourful clothes, _loud_ , smells like lavender.”

One of them signals to the window, into the forest.

“A man almost came in a couple of minutes ago. Seemed to think better of it and ran away. Eyes blue enough, Master Witcher, although I wouldn´t know about perfumes. I´m too poor for that.”

“Too human for that.” Mutters his companion.

Another time Geralt might have spent some time pondering how remarkably not scared shitless those two were of him, but he loses no time in stalking through the door.

The wrath subsides somewhat once he picks a scent. Despite his rage, it is obvious that even someone as useless as Jaskier would cover his tracks better if he were trying to avoid a Witcher.

If Geralt didn´t know better, he would think someone is chasing him. But there are no more tracks, no scents. The only thing after Jaskier is him.

 _Monstrous enough._ The little voice in his head supplies, but he stomps it down. The last time he listened to it he was on a mountain and his life was hell and listening for its counsel only made it worse.

He reaches the forest fast, inhumanly so, but the day fades even quicker. Soon the only thing guiding him pass the trees is faint moonlight trapped by his reflective eyes and the smell.

He is tracking without making the slightest effort of reining himself in, a beast feral in its wake, and descends upon Jaskier with his fangs bared, his eyes glowing and a growl like a thunder.

The Bard is defeated, barely supported by a tree, and looks in awe, fear momentarily forgotten.

He reaches out with a hand, enchanted, and the movement snaps Geralt out of it. They are both shaking.

“ _Why_.” He chokes out, still most a howl.

“I lost myself.”

Geralt paces a couple steps, disoriented. Reaches for him and holds himself back, at least twice.

“It´s ok.” Jaskier murmurs. “You found me”. 

· ∞ ·

Jaskier trembles through the night, the cursed song loud in his ears. A hand comes to his shoulder, as if to stop it.

“Sorry. Is my heartbeat too loud?”

He gets it, now. Why Geralt never asked how he was. He already knew.

A humm.

“Sleep. I´ll keep watch.”

Maybe he is a different kind of artist, Jaskier thinks, to be able to say so much with so little.

 _I hear you too._ He thinks, and sleeps.

· IV·

The Mob

Word gets before them to Hameln and they are received with stones, fire and pitchforks. They are chased, far beyond the outskirts of the town. Their intent is killing them, not scaring them away.

They are running, horses freed hours ago in hopes of leaving their pursuers a false trail.

Geralt despairs, feeling as his own every heavy and agonised intake of breath that Jaskier fights through, somehow keeping up. 

He burns with the _injustice_ of it all, an old wound reopened and oozing venom, worse than ever. He has made his peace with hate and jeers decades ago but this?

 _Enough_. They will all die under his sword.

There is murder in his eyes when he stops, turns and unsheathes his silver sword. He might have believed once that humans were in their rights for chasing him as a monster, but he knows Jaskier is not, and will not let them take their fear of a curse of their own making on someone so precious to him.

He understands now, the determination of Edmund´s eyes as he broke his oath. He cannot be more human for Jaskier, but he surely can be more of a monster for him.

Their bloodlust will be met with hell. That he swears.

Jaskier is suddenly before him, arms extended wide, an obstacle between him and the fast-approaching crowd. He yells at him, over the white noise in his ears and the howls and curses of the mob.

“Don´t. You can´t. I won´t let you.”

“You can´t stop me.” Geralt snarls. “I´d rather you hate me than let you die.”

“It isn´t you that I´ll hate, Geralt, but myself! I won´t let you kill anyone on behalf of my stupidity, much less become a murdered because of it. I forbid it.” He grabs him by the buckles of his armour, in a show of strength that goes unnoticed against the unmovable figure of the Witcher. It is his burning eyes that give him pause. “Follow me.”

The command gives no way for arguing, so he curses and trails after the Bard.

They reach the bottom of a hill on the verge of being a mountain and the words about the futileness of fleeing uphill die on Geralt´s tongue when he notices the way in which Jaskier moves, some unknown intent clear in his not-so-mad run.

Soon a cave entrance appears before of them and they keep running through folds and bends, down, down, up, down again, until Geralt loses track of time and space, his only reality Jaskier´s back in the darkness.

He stops, eventually, collapses on a barely illuminated cavity. They must have got close to the surface, somehow. As he catches his breath, Geralt assesses their surroundings, a new cold horror gripping him hard.

The faint light, the dripping water, the little bones. They are inside Jaskier´s nightmare, and he just ran headlong into it to save a bunch of idiots from themselves. So brave, so noble, so stupid.

He collapses by the Bard, reaching for him and pulling him close. He smells, rather than sees, the tears. Silent in his despair, Jaskier gets as close as humanly possible and holds onto him with all his might.

Determination finds Geralt, cold and unwavering.

“Jaskier. Jaskier.” He calls quietly. “You must sing.”

A strangled choke is the only answer. He doesn´t dare letting him go, so que keeps speaking softly into his hair.

“You must convince them to pay. It is the only way. We won´t die here, under siege, because of them. Either they listen to you or I kill them all and collect his souls instead of their coin. That should satisfy the vengeful spirit enough. They have until nightfall.”

“Give them three days.”

“There is no reason for you to bear thirst, hunger and this place of nightmares for a moment longer. They don´t deserve it.”

“Give them three days.”

“Why?”

“Please. I´ll sing”.

· ∞ ·

His voice is wrong. Trembling, broken.

The song is _wrong._ Stuff of nightmares. Cursed words.

The caves twists the sound, somehow, but carries it well enough.

The thing is, destiny is not as much cruel as a just… a gambler. You play right, you play by the rules, and you get… a chance.

Among the crowd, she´s placed a listener.

· ∞ ·

The third day comes. Jaskier´s voice and his strength have long failed him. Geralt holds him, still, and waits.

The sound mixes with the water, at first. A gentle, rhythmic _tap-tap, tap_. A breathing joins it, but Geralt doesn´t even bother tensing up. Whoever it is, they are alone, and hardly a threat.

“Seems particularly cowardly, to send an elder inside the creature´s den.” He says, still motionless.

The old man looks at him with something dangerously close to pity.

“I am the only one old enough to have heard that story from someone who lived through it. They didn´t believe me, when I told them. They though me demented and far gone, but your words were too much like mine for everybody to ignore it, and… here.”

He retrieves a pouch from his clothes and leaves it on the ground.

“For the services rendered, in delivering us from our evils, with the thanks of the Town of Hammeln.”

The words ring _true_.

He bows, full of respect, joints creaking painfully, and leaves.

As soon as he disappears, Jaskies moves. He hasn´t advanced to steps to the payment when Geralt notices that something is extremely wrong.

“Pity. I was looking forward to the carnage.”

It is Jaskie´s voice, but they aren´t Jaskier´s words.

Witchers don´t feel terror but they can surely feel horror.

“Let him go. Justice is done. You´ve had your vengeance and you have your coin.”

The cruel smile doesn´t belong in Jaskier´s lips, either.

“Justice had nothing to do with this.”

The flute has appeared in his hands, somehow, and it emits a terrible tune when he kisses it.

The air and the light flicker, and the coin and the flute start to lose consistency. Jaskier seems to fade and get corporeal all at the same time, and a couple of notes fill the air before he collapses on the ground while a translucent figure stays in his place. It goes away, slowly, taking the sound with it.

Justice rarely triumphs over Destiny's games, but there are some rules that cannot be broken.

A wrong was righted, and so a curse is broken.

· ∞ ·

“So. Now that I am not longer dying… I demand. To be Loved. As promised.”

There is a lot of insecurity packed in that statement, for all that it is enunciated with a lot of grandeur and in a very commanding tone.

He has waited to regain his strength and to put enough miles between them and Hameln to be able to breath normally again. But with the security of having his life back came again his questionable order of priorities.

“Humm.” Geralt barely represses a smirk. “With all that talk of your progress over the years I almost expected _you_ to pounce on _me_ ”.

The bard gets so very still, stunned into silence while he decides if he is being serious or not. Geralt takes pity of him, even if it is the funniest thing he has ever seen.

“I am teasing you, Jaskier. Come here.”

He does, still quiet and somewhat slowly, as if not to spook Geralt, which is also very amusing. 

“I am afraid you expect this to be the stuff of balads, in the most literal sense.” He has been joking about his experience, but the unbearably deep fondness he feels is completely new and amazing and he is not sure what to do with it, now that he has Jaskier in grabbing distance and in no grave danger.

“Don´t worry about it. True love kisses are self-descriptive.” He sounds so utterly content, sure of his words as if he were preaching. “I´ve given this some thought, you know, over the years. I ´ve decided some tender ravishing would be perfect.”

Tender ravishing it is, then.

· V ·

The ~~End~~ Path

“Geralt.”

A humm.

“You loved me well enough to save me.”

 _Well enough_. Yeah, he did. That grants him… peace.

“What should I weave out of this, my dear? A tale or a song?”

“ _My Bard is back_ ”. The Witcher thinks.

“Hmm.” The Witcher says.

They set on the Path, heading South.


End file.
